


Forward Momentum

by abysmal_seraph (absymal_seraph)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Betrayal, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam Wilson, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Feeding, Intercrural Sex, Kidnapping, Lost Child, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-sexual Overstimulation, Polyamory, Rescue, Sentinel AU, Sentinel Senses, safe houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absymal_seraph/pseuds/abysmal_seraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot more to Sam Wilson than meets the eye. Unfortunately, he has no idea what he is and those who do mean him nothing but harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forward Momentum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crystalemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalemi/gifts).



> Not a lot of details is given about the conditions necessary to awaken Sentinel powers so I'm taking a lot of liberties here. And while Jim and Blair do exist in this universe, Naomi's hover-momming never gets Jim outed so Sentinels remain relatively unknown.
> 
> A lot of liberties were also taken with Sam's family background and Bucky's speech patterns and accent post Winter Soldier. Some of Bucky's behavior is based off of [this awesome head canon](http://amour-de-tous.tumblr.com/post/103800687932/i-base-so-much-of-my-bucky-characterization-on).
> 
> The shifting name usage is intentional. I hope it isn't confusing but it seemed to fit the progression better to me.

There's this reoccurring dream Sam's had for years, more like a mangled memory, really.

He's ten, and he and his parents are visiting Grandma Corine in Mississippi. He goes out to play and doesn't think twice about following the nice-smiling boys into the woods for hide and seek, doesn't realize something is wrong until he's been abandoned so far out he can't find the way back again. 

He's been wandering for days, lost and tired and his senses go haywire at some point. He knows something is following him. He hears its low breathing and the soft crunch of leaves as it stalks and he wishes that his ears had just stopped working instead of becoming so much more sensitive. Being able to sense it before it attacks won't protect him from sharp teeth and claws.

That isn't how it happened, of course. There was no predator and sometime during the fourth day he and the search party stumbled across each other. He was starving, dehydrated, and weak, but he made it home.

Then the real fun began. There were examinations that ended with no explanation for his heightened senses, and a psychiatrist claiming it was a combination of hyper-vigilance and delusion as a result of trauma. He sat in the dark of his room because the light was too much, but could still make out every object with crystal clarity. A cacophony of sound hammered at his skull so hard he wanted to scream instead of the low, pained whimpers he tried to stifle into his pillow. He got sick to his stomach from smells only he noticed, felt like his tongue was on fire from food that used to carry such a mild heat, and the lightest clothes felt heavy enough to weigh him down. 

His parents were at the end of their rope and hemorrhaging money by the time Grandma Corine stepped in and suggested Sam come live with her. They agreed. Sam wanted to feel angry but couldn't, far too aware of the burden and worry he was causing.

Being back near those boys and the woods didn't exactly put Sam at ease, but not being treated like something broken was worth the anxiety. 

"I ever tell you about my Uncle Cyrus, honey?" Grandma Corine asked almost as soon as Sam was moved in. He shook his head, still swimming in the relief of how much quieter it was.

"He was a soldier during the War. Got to talk to Gabriel Jones once," she said with unrestrained pride. Sure, Captain America was great, but he was no Gabe Jones as far as Sam's family was concerned. 

"Well, while he was over there, he got lost just like you." She nodded when his head whipped up, his interest in the story now very much present. "Came back like you too. It goes away eventually but until then, I can help make it easier for you."

His senses leveled out eventually, the sensitivity becoming easier to handle aside from the times he got so lost in a sense that the rest of the world stopped existing. It went away completely a year or so later. He was sent back to Harlem only to be returned to Grandma Corine's care when his parents died when he was fifteen. 

What she didn't tell him--perhaps didn't even know--was that it could come back. Sam learned that the hard way during his first tour. The hypersensitivity reared back up, leading him astray during the quieter moments but leaving him perfectly focused during the firefights. 

Even with the things Grandma Corine taught him, he still doubts he would have survived if Riley hadn't demanded to know that the hell was going on and taken matters into his own hands. That was honestly how the friendship started, a secret too big to keep to himself and Riley climbing the mile high walls of Sam's trust issues to become like an extension of his body. When Riley died, Sam had managed but only by disconnecting from the world around him during the quiet moments, drifting in a haze that kept him from zeroing in on anything. The honorable discharge, when it came, was hardly unexpected.

It went away again, that hypersensitivity, when the PTSD became something that didn't overwhelm him most of the time and he stopped reaching for his gun whenever something startled him.

But there's still that reoccurring dream--always there, never leaving, a constant and unwanted companion--and Sam would be lying if he said he never thought it was trying to tell him something.

***

There's a small flurry of commotion the day Will moves in down the hall. Sure, a new neighbor is met with some interest, a little curiosity, and maybe an attempt to reach out, but Will's apparently attractive enough to start a few people plotting.

Sam's at work during most of the actual moving in process. Cynthia from 3B snatches him up almost as soon as he's comes back from work. In a whirlwind of gossip that sounds suspiciously like a point by point plan to get into their new neighbor's pants, she both catches Sam up on what he's missed and volunteers his 'big strong muscles' to the cause of helping Will with the last few boxes. Sam's getting ready to complain--it's been a long day and he's not _that_ much of a pushover--but he hesitates when Will takes one look at him and seems to completely blank out. 

"Um, you okay, man?" Sam asks, trying not to sound wary. Cynthia had said something about Will being a vet, before the blankness hit, his eyes had reminded Sam of a wounded animal's. But it's not exactly a thousand yard stare Sam's getting hit with at the moment, more like Will's recovering from some sort of shock.

Then everything seems to come back online with a visible shake of Will's head. He pushes a hand through his long brown hair with a self depreciating laugh. "Sorry," he says, offering a tiny apologetic smile. "I'm not sure where my brain just went. You're Sam, huh? I'd think half the building was in love with you from the way they all gush."

Sam remembers Harlem enough to recognize a Brooklyn accent so thick you could drown in it. It's not anything like coming home but it's a comforting sort of familiar.

"Sam's absolutely perfect. Of course we love him. And he's more than happy to help you finish moving in," Cynthia assures before abandoning Sam with a subtle but pointed look. There's a sneaking suspicion in Sam's mind that earlier plotting wasn't about getting _her_ laid at all. Sending a prayer heavenward, he hopes Will hasn't caught that.

Only to find his new neighbor hasn't missed a thing. Bright blue eyes watch Sam with obvious amusement and more than a touch of interest before Will shrugs. "Seems you've been press-ganged into my cause. How about this: you help and I feed you. Promise it'll be eatable."

Sam wets his lips, waffling. He'd help anyway--because he really is that much of a pushover--but it's the idea of sticking around after that makes him hesitate. The old wariness rears its head again, hissing all the ways this could go bad, all the ways Sam could get hurt even if he doesn't play into Cynthia's intentions. 

Pursing his lips, Sam nods. He's never gotten anywhere in life by letting fear rule him.

Will smiles like he's won the lottery and ushers him inside.

***

The list of things Sam knows about Will is relatively small and almost all comes from observation rather than conversation. The accent is definitely Brooklyn and there's no doubting he's a vet. He never wears anything with sleeves shorter than his wrists and favors his right hand to a degree that makes Sam suspect a serious injury. Not enough to lose the left arm but probably leaving nerve damage. That's all guesswork though. Will refuses to discuss his time in the service and Sam refuses to push.

Will's charming as hell, brassy and bold with a twisted sense of humor but always a gentleman to Sam. At least one of them is clearly on board with Cynthia's wingmanning even though Will's unrepentant flirting never crosses any lines, perfectly willing to make his intentions known and let Sam come to him if he wants.

Sam does want. He wants in a way that makes his whole body ache but he has no plans to budge passed friendly. As charming and sweet as Will can be, there's still something cold and blank that comes out sometimes, just long enough to be seen before Will stuffs it back wherever he keeps it. War does a lot to people so Sam doesn't ask, Will doesn't tell, and they'll keep hanging out as long as it looks like no one will get hurt.

Being friends is fine, really, even if sometimes Sam feels so in over his head he might drown.

***

"Sammy."

It's just loud enough to catch Sam's attention, a sweet singsong he's been growing far too used to over the past eight months. He pauses, key still in the lock as he takes a steadying breath. Will's a little overwhelming sometimes, if only because Sam knows following the occasional intense urge to kiss him is a horrible idea.

Will's at his side by the time Sam turns, offering one of those soft, inviting smiles that melts Sam heart every time. He sees it coming, Will telegraphing his movements so Sam can avoid them if he wants. He doesn't startle when fingers nudge his chin up a little then hover just over the bruises under Sam's eyes.

"You and sleep not on speaking terms again, huh?" There's a crooked tilt to Will's smile, this sad gentle thing that says he gets it. "Can't see why it would avoid a handsome fella like you."

"Maybe I'm the one doing the avoiding. I'm a busy man, you know," Sam shoots back, trying to smile but he's aware it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Will won't call him on it, but that soft, sweet expression on his face doesn't change. Sam looks away when it ends up being too much.

A hand claps him lightly on the shoulder, kneading for a second then disappearing. It's enough to get Sam to look up again and meet Will's own tired eyes.

"Just try to pencil in a nap before we go out, huh, Sammy? You start hallucinating and I might have to restrain you." The smirk that crosses Will's face is about as familiar and fondly annoying as the nickname.

Sam shuts the door in his face with an amused 'man, fuck you'. His heart has relocated to his throat and he repeats to himself over and over again that Will's words were a playful threat and not a promise.

Not going there, Sam reminded himself. They aren't going there while he can't even get a proper bead on Will's damage.

Sam forgoes the nap and ignores the knowing look Will gives him when they go out. Will chooses the bar, somewhere smoky and quiet except for the low murmur of people talking and smooth jazz flowing through the air. It's nice, relaxing. Will's good company, all soft smiles and darkly amusing humor, and he's one of those rare people who never tries to push Sam to drink more than a beer or two.

It's all going great then it's suddenly not going at all.

At first, Sam's got no clue why Will's face goes hard. It's not him, Will isn't looking at him at all, and Sam can't follow his gaze with the way he's shifted his body. Sam's been in enough dogfights to know when someone is acting as a shield though, Will subconsciously matching any movement Sam makes to keep from breaking the cover he insists on being. It makes something in Sam's head throb, his senses tweaking up a little at the sudden current of danger.

"Sammy, I really hate to cut this short," Will says, forcing the words to come out almost casual, before Sam can ask him what the hell is going on, "but maybe you should go home now. Or somewhere else, at least. I gotta talk to someone and I don't think I'll be good company for the rest of the night."

Sam's moving before Will is even done talking, not sure if he should be helping or running like hell. "You want to tell me what's going on, man?"

"No." Will turns to him then, offering him a sweet, heartbreaking smile. "Sammy, this ... don't go anywhere with me again, okay? Don't even talk to me. If you see me, go the other way." 

"Will, what th--"

"It's important, okay. You ... you were right not to trust me. Just go home. And if anyone starts acting weird around you, you fucking shoot them and run."

Sam blinks very slowly at him then leaves without another word. Before he's out the building, he sees Will approaching a man, scowling and out of place in his crisp suit. The hostility between them is enough to draw looks. That night, Sam dreams of trees and stalking footsteps.

The next morning, Will doesn't come back and the news is reporting a dead man found in an alley near the bar, neck broken, no ID. They give Will's description as a suspect.

A week passes and no one comes to speak to Sam in connection to the case. Men wearing scowls and crisp suits clean out Will's apartment. Sam stays inside until they're gone, his gun laying beside him just in case. 

By the time Captain America and Black Widow show up three months later to tell him the world's gone to Hell, Sam's more than ready to believe it.

***

It hits about a second before the car door meets the road. Sam feels the heat of the sparks, hears the horrible screech of metal skidding on concrete, can practically taste the adrenaline in Steve and Natasha's sweat as he inhales. 

It's not nearly as strong as it should be, but Hydra's finally pushing open the door Will's cryptic warning had left cracked.

He's in his element, thank God, flowing with the sudden heightening of his senses as he takes down hostiles and kicks Steve's brainwashed best friend in the head. Sam doesn't even have time to consider the problem his senses might cause until they're in Fury's secret base and he almost zones out listening to the doctors' low conversation from across the room. 

He's got no problem focusing during the planning stage, the adrenaline of just talking it through enough to trick Sam's body into the right mindset. But he pulls Steve and Natasha aside later for an extremely watered down warning. They need to know, at least enough so they don't start worrying about him having their backs. Trying to put it into words that don't make him sound crazy isn't exactly easy though.

"If you need to back out, we'll understand," Natasha says, not unkindly, before Sam can work out how to approach it. "You're already up for sainthood for running a home for wayward fugitives. No need to risk jail time by helping us more."

"I tell everyone I know Black Widow and Captain America, and I'll be king of the prison no matter how this goes," Sam shoots back on automatic. Catching Steve's frown and anticipating the incoming guilty speech, Sam shakes his head and cuts Steve off before he even begins.

"Uh uh, stop, I'm not going anywhere. I just want to warn you about something." Sam takes a steadying breath as they watch him, waiting to know what's so important. The grimace on Steve's face says he thinks it might be about Barnes. Sam's not even planning to touch that right now. "I've got this ... hyper-vigilance problem. I'm laser-sharp during action but can get pretty out of it during the quiet moments."

Natasha tilts her head, eyes narrowing. "And you didn't think to tell us sooner." 

Her tone's too curious for an accusation so Sam doesn't take it as one. "Wasn't sure it would be an issue. Having it happen on tour is one thing. This," he makes an expansive gesture that doesn't come close to encompassing everything that was happening, "is something else entirely. But believe me, if it made me a liability during a fight, I'd bow out."

It seems to be enough for Natasha, who offers him a quick once over with a slight smirk before excusing herself. Steve stays, his frown thoughtful.

"How did you handle it overseas?"

Sam gives a small, one-sided shrug. "I had Riley," he says like it's one of those universally known facts. Water's wet, the sky is blue, and he had Riley to ground him when he couldn't soar. Steve's eyes widen, realization dawning, like he can see this new thread of commonality joining the tangle already connecting them.

Later, as everyone is getting into position, Steve turns to him, brow furrowed and lips pursed, to ask the question Sam has been expecting since the bridge.

"What would you do if it was Riley out there?"

"Exactly what you're doing," Sam answers, no hesitation.

Steve nods, expression unchanged, and signals them to move.

***

When the bullets start flying, Sam's senses reach their full range with a rush of adrenaline and a dull ache like finding home. He twists and cuts through the air as though made for it, this intricate dance of dodge and attack, his ears telling him where enemy fire will be and his eyes making his targets so much clearer. If Sam had less sense, if the gravity of what will happen if they fail isn't so dire, he'd whoop with pure joy.

Sam hears Barnes before he sees him but that doesn't mean his senses are any match for an assassin's reflexes. He's down before he knows it, a wing ripped off with such violence Sam will have bruises from the straps. He gets his first good look at Barnes' face after that. His brain stutters to a halt because--

"Will?"

There's a beat of recognition, Barnes' face transforming from alien and bitter cold into someone so familiar. Sam's already falling when the expression slips back under the blank mask.

***

Sam knows there is someone in his apartment long before he reaches the door. He'd known it was a risk to return after being booted from Steve's bedside, but he's got nowhere else to go and this might be the last he'll see of home for a long time.

He hears the soft sounds of someone moving inside, much quieter than the movement coming from the neighboring apartments. It's the hiss of the oven and the sharp smell of sauce that stops him from turning around. He can already guess who he'll find.

Not bothering to turn on the lights--he doesn't need them and apparently neither does his guest--Sam sits down at his table and watches Barnes cook. The black leather combat gear is gone, replaced by a t-shirt and jeans. The jacket and gloves that finish the outfit are neatly laid out on the couch.

There's a collection of weapons on the counter and Sam twitches every time Barnes comes near them but he figures he wouldn't be getting fed if the plan was to kill him.

Besides, all Barnes really needs is that metal arm.

Sam watches and remembers how Will had rarely used that hand. "They give you an upgrade after you left here?"

"My memories are nowhere near exact," Barnes says, and his slight accent isn't Brooklyn but somewhere much colder, "but I know it was attached shortly after I 'died'."

If it bothers him that this is what Sam opens up with, he doesn't let on. He doesn't show much of anything really. But he turns so Sam can see his left arm better and flexes it with a whirring that's loud to Sam but probably near silent to anyone else. He displays the way the plates shift, the exact movement of the fingers that no modern prosthetic can copy. There's no threat to it and not an ounce of self consciousness, just a willingness to show if Sam is curious enough to learn.

"How did you hide it?"

Barnes watches his metal hand stir the sauce with efficient ease. There's no show of revulsion at the sight, no rejection of the limb. If anything, he seems mildly fascinated. "A ... glove of sorts, made from high quality synthetic skin. And a lot of acting." 

Sam's brow furrows in anger, finding it hard to hold back the real question he wants an answer to. So he stops trying.

"What the _fuck_ were you doing here? Doing to me?"

"Do you know what you are, Sammy?" Barnes asks, making a small soothing noise when Sam flinches at the name. He takes a step closer and smiles. It's nothing like Will's, but it's better than the harsh nothing Barnes has displayed so far. "I won't stop calling you that. I'm not sure I can. You're Sammy, just like he is Stevie. My mind is hard to navigate, but I remember that much."

"You put him in the hospital. He could have died if I hadn't spotted him so fast," Sam grits out, the words leaving his mouth like gunshots.

They find their mark. Barnes hangs his head, expression miserable. Then he licks his lips and shakes most of it off. 

"You found him because you are different. Do you know what you are?" he repeats then waits for Sam to grudgingly shake his head. "They call you a Sentinel. Groups such as Hydra and the ones who trained Romanova long to find at least one Sentinel among their potential assets. They run tests, training that's not so much about learning as it is surviving the elements. If you live, you make a better asset. But these methods have yet to give them what they really want."

Sam turns that around in his mind, weighing it. He remembers the examinations as a child, the notes taken, the signs he must have shown on tour if someone knew what they were looking for. The wings are probably what put him on the radar. He could easily imagine some Hydra flunky digging through a top secret project and finding much more than they had expected.

They fall quiet after that, ignoring each other until Barnes sets a plate of spaghetti in front of Sam. His stomach twists with uncertainty and confusion, anger and this sick sort of hope that Sam doesn't want to admit he feels. Will made spaghetti that first night. It's intentional, has to be. Sam didn't have the ingredients for it when he left, and Barnes has proven capable of preparing other dishes in the past.

There's a second of hesitation before Sam picks up his fork. It could be a trap--the food, the honesty, Barnes himself--but what's the point now? Why let Steve live only to turn Sam over to Hydra? Because even though Steve's not awake to tell the story yet, Sam knows that's what happened. Barnes is free, Steve is alive, and that is the only explanation for both those facts.

Barnes doesn't watch Sam take that first mouthful, eyes on his own plate as he mixes in spices. Chewing, Sam dully notes it tastes just fine to his heightened palette. Manners has him muttering his thanks for the consideration, and Barnes takes it with the same grave seriousness he's taken everything else.

They eat in silence. Sam makes no attempt to hide his staring as Barnes bolts down his food like he expects it to be taken away. Will had eaten slowly, savoring every bite in a way that bordered on filthy. Sam wonders if this is an extremely watered down version of what Steve must feel, searching Barnes for any hint of the friend he'd once known. 

"Are you the Winter Soldier or Bucky?" Sam asks before he can stop himself, the words sounding rough and rusted as they come out his mouth.

Expression turning thoughtful, Barnes seems to mull over that awhile before answering. "Both, I think. Like how Steve is both himself and Captain America," he eventually says, meeting Sam's gaze with clear and steady eyes. "They wanted me compliant, obedient. As long as I was that, my emotions didn't matter enough to remove. If such a thing is even possible."

"That last night, the man in the suit, you weren't supposed to kill him." It isn't a question. Sam's angry, so damn angry, but he knows that for some reason Barnes had disobeyed to protect him. It's the only reason Sam's willing to have this conversation.

"I wasn't supposed to do a lot of things where you were concerned, Sammy."

Neither of them talk after that. Sam finishes his food and holes himself in his bedroom. Sleep comes much easier than expected despite Barnes sitting outside the door, the sound of him checking his gun following Sam as he dreams of blood and battle. 

He wakes, still exhausted, to breakfast waiting for him, the scents tickling his nose and making his stomach growl. Barnes looks like he hasn't slept but he still moves with that deadly efficiency, a brutal type of grace.

Maybe Sam's just too tired. Or maybe it's a special sort of foolishness that grows in hope that keeps him from being frightened. He's angry at Barnes but he still feels safe.

"I'll be gone by the time you come back," Barnes says after Sam showers and changes to check on Steve. "I'm not running. Not from Steve, and not from you. But they have to pay for what they've done."

"He's going to come looking for you. He's already lost you once."

Barnes nods, an echo of one of Will's sweet smiles softening his features before something wicked and sharp passes over his face. "Then I'll have a chance to clear the way first. Follow the bodies, Sammy. There will be too many to lose my trail for long."

Sam leaves and when Steve finally wakes up, Sam tells him everything he knows about Barnes.

***

Natasha gives them two folders when they meet her in the cemetery. One she hands to Steve, a small picture of Barnes in uniform nearly falling out when he opens it.

The other, which she discreetly hands to Sam once Steve is distracted, contains the scant bits of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s knowledge on Sentinels.

***

Barnes wasn't joking about making himself easy to follow. They find traces of him everywhere. A glimpse in a crowd, the flash of gleaming metal out of the corner of the eye as they walked down unfamiliar streets. Hot rifle shells left on a rooftop after Hydra agents started dying around Sam and Steve. Homegrown terrorists' bodies left here and there like signposts anytime they lose the way.

Steve takes it with a grim acceptance. His friend is alive, and so are his enemies. Barnes will come to them in time, but until then, Hydra needs killing all over again. It's enough to keep Steve busy while he waits, even if he would prefer Barnes there beside him.

Meanwhile, Sam relearns how much he both loves and hates being a Sentinel. They've had several small battles while chasing Barnes, either the regrouped survivors of his campaign of destruction or pockets so small he'd missed them entirely. Sam's helped them avoid a couple of ambushes and gotten them both out of a sniper's line of fire at least once. Despite trying to be as discreet as possible about how he knows, Steve still shoots him suspicious glances but never brings the topic up.

As usual, it's outside of a fight that's the real problem. There's the zoning out, of course, but what causes Sam the most grief is the close quarters. Steve smells _good_. It's thankfully not like how Sam's brain shutdown anytime he smelled Private Meyer, but it's becoming an issue. 

He'd known the second Steve started shit talking that he was the type Sam could get behind kissing, but keeping his hand to himself hadn't been so hard before. Now, Sam ignores what little personal space their circumstances allow, touching without conscious thought. He knows Steve's attracted to him too, happily accepts the touching and initiates when Sam holds back. But everything is too strange and too soon and Sam can't handle it on top of the zoning.

Instead of letting himself worry over it, Sam falls back on the method that helped after Riley died. Ghosting through experiences instead of actually being part of them isn't a surefire way of keeping the zoning at bay, but it's the best he's managed to come up with on his own. The file Natasha gave him hadn't contained methods of handling it, just theories and observation of how long-dead indigenous Sentinels used their senses to protect their tribes. There's mention of having partners to ground them, like Riley had done for Sam, but nothing in depth.

It doesn't take long for Steve notice, naked concern on his face as Sam drifts from moment to moment between action.

He should tell Steve. He knows that, knows it probably won't end in rejection, but secrets are damn hard to spill when you've been harboring them most of your life. Besides, Steve has enough on his plate without worrying about Sam, and it's never an issue when the fighting starts.

Sam's still useful, can still do his part, and that's all that really matters.

***

"Idiots, the both of you. Just tell him," Barnes quietly says from a rooftop in Italy as Sam and Steve fight below. It's the first time Barnes has spoken to him since breaking into his apartment. Sam startles, scowling in that direction before a rifle shot takes out the man who had been aiming at him. Steve doesn't notice, too busy splitting some poor asshole's skull with the shield.

Yet again, Barnes is making contact with Sam before his childhood friend, and Sam feels the rude gesture he discreetly aims his way is as much for Steve's sake as his own.

In Ireland, as Steve's about to kick in the fortified door a scientist has hidden behind, a gentle, "What am I going to do with you two?" reaches Sam's ear just before a small explosion sounds inside the room. The scientist barrels back out in frenzy of confusion and terror, blubbering about the Winter Soldier coming to get him like a child fearing a monster under the bed. He's easy to subdue but nothing he says makes sense, so they scour the facility for useful data then call Hill to deal with him. Sam's not sure how it works, whether she has Talbot on speed dial or what. But that's who always appears to scavenge the remains once Sam and Steve do all the hard work and get well out of range.

"You do realize there's a problem when I am the voice of reason, yes?" breezes through the wooded outskirts of a small French town as they're fleeing the scene of their latest victory. 

It's rhetorical, considering Barnes has to be hiding somewhere in the trees yards away, so Sam feels justified in ignoring him. The tone of his voice says Barnes is starting to become more annoyed than fondly exasperated. Sam shrugs it off, telling himself he has a right to petty where Barnes is concerned. 

They're in Germany when Barnes crowds Sam into a booth as he's preforming a solo coffee run.

"Samuel Thomas Wilson, if you do not fucking tell him, I will," he hisses into Sam's ear. His expression is pleasant enough that the few spectators they've garnered quickly lose interest.

Recovering from his surprise, Sam sighs and takes a slow sip of his too-hot coffee. There's enough adrenaline pumping through him that he can afford to focus on the man beside him. The dark circles under Barnes' eyes are probably a match for Sam and Steve's, but Barnes seems fine otherwise, clean and fed and a contained sort of scruffy. He looks like he did when he was Will--who Steve swears sounds exactly like Barnes with a crush--and the use of his gloved left hand to steal Sam's coffee is a little disconcerting.

"Okay, go ahead," Sam says as he inhales Barnes' scent. Different, but as good as Steve's. God, he was in so deep. "Not like I know how to start that conversation, anyway."

"I did not take you for a coward."

The look Sam throws Barnes could melt Steve's shield. "I'm sitting here tolerating your scary ass instead of screaming for help. And I'm not the one avoiding a chat with his best friend of God knows how many years, so fuck off with that."

Leaning away, Barnes traces every inch of Sam's face with his eyes. His expression is blank, keeping his thoughts to himself while Sam patiently waits for him to say something or leave. When nothing comes, Sam steals his coffee back and pushes Steve's towards Barnes instead.

"I know I'm damn pretty but I thought you had something to say."

"He would have kissed that foul mouth of yours by now if you weren't walking around in such a daze." Barnes smirks, and for a second he almost looks like the man Steve sometimes draws. Almost. There's no melting the ice in his sharp, assessing gaze. "I _will_ tell him if you won't. You can't keep doing this to yourself. It is not healthy. Or safe."

Sam does know that. He'd have to be a very bad counselor not to. But helping to fix the messes in other people doesn't make doing the same for yourself any easier. 

Sam nearly proposes a deal--he tells Steve about this Sentinel thing and Barnes has to stop avoiding Steve if his mental health is up for it--when he feels one of Barnes' hands digging in his jacket pocket. 

"Man, you have _so_ not earned the right to go there yet," Sam blurts out without thinking, realizes the implications behind it a second too late. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he glares at Barnes until he stops.

"Believe me, I know."

Barnes breezes out before Sam can respond to that. A minute later, as he's still trying to convince himself to move, Steve walks in, confused, eyes frantic as they dart around the shop. He calms a little the second he spots Sam, but he looks no less concerned as he slides into the booth so they're face to face. Sam wants to tell him everything is fine but the second he inhales, he knows he's in so much trouble. Steve and Barnes' scents are manageable separate but combined they make the Meyer problem look pathetic. At least he can still think straight even if all his blood is trying to head south. 

"You okay? Your text sounded urgent," Steve says, brow furrowing as he looks Sam over. There's a gleam in his eye like he's gearing up to punch someone if Sam isn't, in fact, okay.

After Sam checks the pocket Barnes invaded and realizes that's where his phone's been relocated, he considers pointing Steve's protective anger in that direction. He also considers being spiteful and keeping quiet when 'Enjoy your talk with Steve' gets texted to him while he's frowning at his phone.

Instead, he says, "Your friend is a ruthless bastard." He ignores Steve's startled and wary glance, silently vows to pay Barnes back with something awful, and starts talking. 

***

Telling Steve is a mistake. A terrible, horrible, possibly wonderful mistake. Riley had simply accepted Sam's weirdness, saw the potential in it, and grounded Sam without much fuss.

Steve wants to play. 

Sam gets it, he does. Steve's own senses are more sensitive than the average person so this is yet another thing they have in common. And it's not like Steve could pass up the tactical advantages to be gained from exploiting Sam's abilities.

That doesn't make his enthusiasm any less worrying.

"Okay, so, my senses are at peak human range," Steve says that night while Sam's trying to become one with the double bed he'd claimed in their newest hotel room. Sam isn't actually tired, but his bed smells like him and not Steve which is good.

Steve promptly ruins that by sitting down beside him, leaning partially against him as he catches Sam's gaze with a strange sort of delight. "But your senses are more on an animal's level, right? You could track a person down by scent or sound alone?"

Sam snorts and pushes his face in the pillow. "I'm not a dog, Steve."

That earns him a hard nudge. Steve's hand stays on Sam's side after, fingers faintly trembling. Sam hazards a guess, almost keeps quiet about it but speaks anyway.

"Your nose sensitive enough to smell Barnes on me?"

Steve doesn't startle like Sam suspected he would. He seems to have been anticipating the question, his eyes searching what he can see of Sam's face. Sam nearly smothers himself to escape the way Steve's scent spikes with lust.

"You ever test how far your ranges are?" Steve asks instead of answering. He pushes at Sam's side to get him to turn. Sam resists for a moment then goes with it.

"They ever test yours?"

"No, and we're not going to get very far here is we keep answering questions with questions." Steve arches an eyebrow, Captain America's disapproving face on full display and aimed directly at Sam. "Work with me here, Wilson."

Sighing, Sam sits up. The movement dislodges Steve's hand, which relocates itself to Sam's knee with a gentle rub. Sam knows in that moment that while Barnes as Will was a gentleman, Steve is going to make it his mission to see how much Sam will let him get away with. 

"There were no tests. The doctors and psychiatrist didn't believe me, and Riley and I were too worried I'd zone out if tried." Or someone would find out. That had worried Riley far more than Sam. He was used to being called a liar and dismissed, but Riley had expected scientists to swoop in and steal Sam while he wasn't looking.

"And you need someone to help you with that. The zoning." It isn't a question. Steve's jaw is set in that fashion that says it's going to happen anyway. "Look, I know it seems to bother you, but letting me help is better than how you've been acting. You've been scaring me, Sam. You're not here and I haven't known how to get you back until now." 

The whole Captain America thing doesn't leave Sam starstruck, never has and probably never will. But Steve Rogers sounding so earnest and desperate? He can see how people just do things for the man.

"Steve, stop with the eyes, okay? All you need to do is refocus me when I'm out of it." Sam's not exactly sure how Riley did that, but Steve's clever. He'll figure something out. "I don't think it's that hard, you just have to be paying attention for when it happens."

Steve nods, confident once handed instructions even when they're this vague. Sometimes, Sam thinks Steve likes orders, just not the ones he deems too stupid to follow.

"Does playing on a different sense help?"

Sam makes a strangled noise, a little overwhelmed by how little he understands the way his own body works. "I think Riley might have shaken me sometimes if he was close enough. Maybe called me. I don't know what brings me back, man. Grandma Corine never explained what she did and Riley never had a chance. There was no reason to think it'd be going through this again."

The hand on Sam's knee squeezes then starts rubbing again, small intricate circles meant to soothe. The fabric scratches over his skin, the sensation almost too intense. He can feel every pore in the cloth, the small holes catching on flesh and hair, and passed that he can feel the grooves in Steve's fingers, the delicate dips and swirls. Body heat slips through, adds to the warmth of Sam's skin until he feels too hot and the clothing is too much to bear.

Then something snaps an inch from his face and Sam startles so bad he almost falls over. 

"Okay, buddy, that was actually a little terrifying," Steve says, his voice sounding far away then too close. "But that's a hell of a lot better than the zombie routine you've been doing."

Sam barks out a laugh that makes him wince at the volume. His senses aren't evening out properly, he realizes. He's still a little too caught up in Steve touching.

"What kind of tests are you planning to do?" Sam asks just to get the worry off Steve's face.

It works, though the glance Steve shoots him says he knows he's being distracted. "I want to test your range, compare it to my own. But also how well you can track a moving object, can you pick complex intel apart into the simpler parts." Steve shrugs, looking a little self conscious. "I don't know. I'm mostly making it up as I go along."

"Well, that makes two of us," Sam grumbles as he slides back down on the bed. Steve's hand hovers over him until Sam settles but drops to the bed instead of touching him. "And yeah, sure, whatever. Let your inner scientist go wild."

That earns him one of Steve's best smiles, the one that makes Sam's heart clench and his fingers itch. 

"Good. Now move over. We're sharing tonight."

"Excuse me? I don't need a teddy bear, Rogers," Sam says. He doesn't point out the bed isn't big enough for the both of them to fit without a whole lot of pressing against each other. That's obviously Steve's plan.

Besides, Sam's not sure it would make much difference unless he sincerely protested. Steve pushes where Barnes waits, and Sam is feeling good enough to let him have his way for once.

As if to prove the point, Steve happily manhandles Sam onto his side so he can squeeze in behind him. His groin is flush with Sam's ass and it's all Sam can do to not combust.

"Yeah, well, maybe I do, Wilson."

That's almost enough to make Sam turn so he can call Steve on his bullshit to his face and the soft press of his lips against the back of Sam's neck is nothing close to subtle.

"Since when am I old man catnip?" There's no heat in it. Sam's not sure he can be mad even if he wanted to.

Warm breath ghosts over his skin as Steve laughs at him, delighted and completely unrepentant. "I don't know. Probably about the same time old men started getting you hot." He squeezes a little when Sam curses, the curve of his mouth smug against Sam's skin. "Uh huh, my nose can pick that up just fine. Now go to sleep. We've got science to do in the morning."

That earns him another smack but also Sam's pillow-muffled laughter.

***

Steve's tests turn out to be interesting, creative, and increasingly complex, if not somewhat taxing on Sam. With a few weeks and Steve's vaguely disturbing ability to get his hands on things he really shouldn't be able to, Sam can recognize a large number of dangerous compounds by scent alone. And if he concentrates on a single sound, Sam can sort of turn the volume down on others so they cause less interference. He can do the same with touch, dialing sensations back until they're normal human levels or less but that hadn't been nearly as easy to reverse.

Combat has already taught Sam how to use his senses to gather info, but Steve thinks they can fine tune his abilities further, be more exact. He's the gentlest taskmaster Sam has ever met, constantly encouraging and willing to drop anything they're doing the second Sam shows real discomfort. It's sweet. Weird, but sweet.

He suspects Barnes has a hand in all this. There's been a suspicious lack of dead people acting as markers and Steve's mood hasn't suffered in the least. In fact, the only reason Sam knows Barnes is still around is because Steve drags all the proof in with him whenever he comes back from a chore that's taken too long. Sam never says anything about the bruises, the hickeys, the swollen lips and the smell, but Steve's not exactly hiding them.

Sam's not jealous. That would be easier than the way his mind supplies him images, graphic play by plays of just how Steve got into that state.

While Steve's out, Sam tends to sleep. It's easier to rest sometimes when he knows he won't wake Steve with a nightmare, be they of blood and firefights in a desert or an endless range of trees in Mississippi.

It's the latter he's having now, curled up on Steve's bed instead of his own, the faint traces of Barnes' scent transferred to sheets that smell heavily of Steve.

The dream's different this time. Sam knows that the moment it starts but he can't tell how. Not at first, not until the predator in the background doesn't keep its usual distance. There's no distinctive shape to it, like the dream has decided the details aren't important. All that matters is that there are sharp fangs and claws and he can't outrun it.

Just as the teeth are snapping down on him and he startles awake with a scream clenched in his throat, the room door crashes open and Hydra pours in.

***

Sam comes to in a dark, featureless room with no windows and a single door he instinctively knows he can't open. Pain laces through him as he breathes, his body feeling like one huge bruise. He's already made too noise to pretend he's still unconscious, so he sits up and glares at the door while trying to think up a way out of this mess. 

He pushes his senses outward, catches the scent of his captors but there's little he can do with that. His ears pick up the low electrical buzz of something wired to the room. Beyond that is breathing, right outside the door and further still is voices, three people excitedly discussing their successful catch.

He smells the metal of the door and uses the tiny sliver of light it lets in around the edge to look for weak points. Through the crack, he can partially see the man standing guard. All he can make out is an expanse of dark fabric and an impression of how tall the man is. If his muscles match his height, Sam's going to have a lot of trouble getting passed him.

He's going to need Steve for this, and God knows if they've left enough clues for him to follow. It's a disheartening thought, but it's better than wondering if Steve is already here or worse.

Nothing happens for a long time. Everyone who knows what's going to happen to him are either keeping quiet about it or are well out of range. He learns nothing of Steve's condition from those he can hear but keeps listening anyway. It's the best distraction he can find to keep the creeping horror of his situation at bay.

Eventually, the door opens to reveal several men with guns who gesture him out the room and tell him not to fight. Sam obeys that about as well as most orders he doesn't like.

The thing is, Sam is more important to the higher ups than these grunts. He knows it, they know it. The scientist overseeing this little operation definitely knows it, and her snarled threats of serious consequences if the muscle damage him beyond repair are enough to quail the use of lethal force. 

Sam has no such restraints and is possibly hoping they get angry enough to kill him anyway. He manages to put three of the guys down before the scientist gets a needle in him.

Time melts, pooling into black space as Sam's senses twist. Fingers dig into his skin, and the pain they cause smells like hot metal. Someone shouts, loud and angry. Sam can taste the syllables, is sick with the bile that coats his tongue as they drill their way into his skull. All he sees is cold light even when he shuts his eyes.

He's chained to a table when the world rearranges itself into something he recognizes. He doesn't know how long he stays like that, scientists taking blood and shining lights in his eyes, prodding reactions out of him as he drifts in a haze.

An alarm sounds, making Sam whimper and the scientists tense. It shuts off a second later, the wail stubbornly oscillating with crackling static before ending in ringing silence.

Chaos erupts.

Beneath the frantic voices of the scientists as they argue with each other, Sam can hear the distant snapping of bone. There's choked off cries, the wet sound of something slicing through flesh, the steady thump of determined footsteps. Sam can smell the blood even before Barnes crashes into the room like a human wrecking ball. 

His eyes meet Sam's for one heart-stopping second, his face a mask of rage flecked with blood. Some animal part of Sam's brain makes him go very still but he's not scared, not really. He knows with an absolute instinctual certainty that he's one of only two people who will leave this room alive.

Three of the scientists have guns. Barnes considers them with a flat look, the fingers of his right hand idly flipping his knife into a new position before gripping it. 

Everything's a flurry of movement and shouts after that. Barnes lunges forward, sidestepping a bullet then grabbs one of the armed scientists. He breaks the hand holding the gun and hefts the man up to act as a shield. His colleagues don't hesitate to shoot him. His body absorbs most of the shots, any that make it through bouncing uselessly off Barnes' metal arm and whatever his combat gear is made of. Any training they might have had is forgotten in the face of their panic, wasting bullets on a tactic that clearly isn't working.

Soon enough, their guns click empty and Barnes smiles as sharp as his knife.

What follows is a hurricane of death Sam's glazed mind can't fully track. Barnes stops before the last body finishes its drop, slowly turning to Sam and staring at him like he's a thing to be taken apart and put back together once all the secrets are spilled.

"Sorry it took so long," he says as he approaches. The roll of his hips is predatory, unconscious but still more a threat than a promise of salvation. Sam's hazy eyes follow the movement while his breath hisses out too fast.

Barnes looks him over, accesses the damage done to him. His hands cup Sam's face to adjust his head, palms and fingers tacky with blood and careful to avoid a cut on Sam's cheek. The kiss he presses to Sam's forehead is probably the gentlest thing he's done since entering the building.

Sam must lose consciousness at some point because he wakes on a different table with someone pressing a bag of ice to his ribs. He's still too drugged to come up swinging like his instincts demand but they're different drugs, the quality of his haziness having shifted in a way that means painkillers. He's swimming, pain free for the first time since being captured, and his mind's having difficulty parsing the details his eyes and body are trying to give him.

"Where ..." he starts then trails off, the thought guttering like candle flame before it can finish.

Barnes' face comes into his field of vision, clean of blood and hovering over Sam like an unimpressed angel of death. "Safe house," he says, glancing sideways. His face twists into an expression Sam can't read in his current condition. "A doctor looked at you before we came here. Stitches, ice and painkillers for your cracked ribs. Fluids for dehydration."

His voice is rough in Sam's ear, a low rasp that reveals less emotion than his face.

"Steve?" Sam croaks out. He knows Steve isn't with them, the lack of his scent and sounds of a third person making Sam anxious.

Frowning, Barnes presses Sam's hand over the ice to keep it in place and slips from his line of sight. He reappears with a bottle of water and hits something beside the table that makes it shift beneath Sam, slowly lifting his upper body so he's sitting up. Opening the bottle, Barnes holds the lip to Sam's mouth and waits for him to drink.

"Steve is fine. I was closer to your location. You were in no condition for us to risk doing anything but getting you straight to a safe house," Barnes answers, his eyes trained on Sam's mouth as he carefully regulates the flow of liquid. "He knows the location and will join us as soon as it's safe."

Sam shakes his head, scowls. "But what if he doesn't?"

"He will."

Barnes is gone before Sam can argue. He comes back with a spoon and bowl of something thin and dark. It smells like heaven to Sam, his stomach growling for it, cramping with the thought of being full. He's too weak to feed himself and Barnes doesn't even seem to weigh that possibility, silently spooning mouthfuls into Sam's mouth with the same care he'd shown with the water.

Sam's not sure what he's eating but it's rich and warm on his tongue, the perfect temperature. His thoughts skew sideways as Barnes feeds him, wandering from one thread to another. He worries about Steve, and worries that Hydra have done more than just kick Sam's ass and run tests. He wonders about the care Barnes put into the soup, put into everything else he's done for Sam so far.

Patiently, Barnes feeds him half the bowl before Sam admits he can't eat any more. Barnes frown at that, the barest downward curve of his mouth as pulls away. Not angry or annoyed but worried.

"How long are we here for?" Sam asks because that's easier than trying to figure Barnes out, understand the hows and whys of a man he doesn't really know.

"You will stay here until it is safe to travel to a new safe house," Barnes answers after a long, dissecting moment. His metal fingers tap lightly against the bottom of the bowl. "I will stay until I have a lead on who ordered this done to you."

"And then you go fuck up more Hydra agents."

It's not a statement of judgment, just fact. He can't demand Barnes treat monsters and murders with kid gloves just so they can get a trial. Not when he couldn't look at the judge, the lawyers, the jury and tell for sure none of them are Hydra too.

Barnes smiles, and there is nothing sweet or welcoming about it. It's a dark smile, dangerous, promising blood and death and a trail of bodies leading straight to the heart of whoever he is now. Sam still can't find it in himself to frightened.

"It's about time we got some more painkillers in you," Barnes says as he opens a bottle, grabs Sam's free hand, and rattles a couple pills onto his palm. Barnes helps him lift it when he shakes too much with the effort, then offers Sam a sip from the bottle.

"You could have just fed them to me instead of making me work."

With a small tilt of his head, Barnes holds his hands up at eye level, palms towards Sam. "I cleaned them. I scrubbed them until my skin felt like it would crack. I like the idea of my fingers in your mouth but do you think you would taste soap, Sammy, or blood?"

"Yeah, okay, Lady Macbeth, I get your point." Sam means it as a joke but Barnes' scowls. "Whoa, hey, I didn't me--"

Barnes cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "Speaking of betrayal, I think we should finish the conversation we had while Steve was in the hospital."

This isn't a topic Sam wants to revisit right now. Possibly ever. He doesn't want to think about the planning that went into it, the way he was probably talked about like an item to be acquired instead of person. He definitely doesn't want to know the plans they had for him once he was too caught up to escape.

He doesn't think he'll be able to sway Barnes against ever talking about it again, not after having to kill his way through an entire Hydra base to rescue him. There's probably pertinent information tangled up in all Barnes wants to share. That won't make it easier to talk about.

Just like it hadn't made it easier to read the file Natasha had handed Steve in the cemetery.

"So quick side trip before we get to the traumatizing parts: why am I always Sammy but Steve's not Stevie when you're talking to me?"

Surprise isn't something he's used to seeing on Barnes' face. It doesn't last long, quickly turning incredulous at Sam's stalling. "Because I'm talking _about_ him, not _to_ him. You're Sam when I discuss you with Steve."

"Do I even want to know what those talks are about?"

"Your stubbornness among other things. Please stop changing the subject. It's important or I wouldn't bring it up at all." Barnes frowns, hesitating. "You are vulnerable and alone in my care. And I think we both need to know if you would prefer me to keep my distance until Steve arrives."

It's how damn ominous that statement sounds that gets Sam to agree. He watches Barnes with wary eyes, not sure if the fear he feels is directed at Barnes or whatever is about to be revealed.

"I can't promise everything that comes out of my mouth will be civil if we have this conversation," Sam warns, hands twitching with the need to fidget. "I'm sorry about that. I don't think you're a monster and I know it wasn't your choice, but that doesn't mean I'm not still angry about it."

"And I'm the only one here to aim it at."

Groaning softly, Sam buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm just ..."

"Human, Sammy, instead of the patron saint of everyone's wellbeing but your own. I can survive you blowing off a little steam." Barnes combs the fingers of his right hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. "You can just listen if you want. Yell when it gets too much to hold in. You have every right to."

It's slow coming but Sam eventually nods in agreement. Barnes works his jaw then starts.

"You probably think I was there to kidnap you." He waits for Sam's murmur of acknowledgment. "It wasn't that easy but definitely more cruel. I was meant to lure you. Maneuver myself into your life and twist you up so tight you'd forsake everything you believed. You would have been both my assignment ... and my reward."

Sam doesn't bother to hide his reaction, pushing back hard against the table with a grimace on his face. He knows it looks like he's trying to put as much distance between him and Barnes as possible. That might be exactly what he's doing but his emotions are a confusing knot he can't unravel beyond an instinctive repulsion.

"Reward?" he repeats, swallowing back bile.

Barnes makes an aborted motion to comfort him before resolutely dropping his hands to his side in clenched fists. "That didn't necessarily mean sex. In fact, I don't think that occurred to them. It hadn't occurred to me at first either."

He seems willing to leave it at that, but the sharp look Sam shoots him gets him talking again. "As you know, Sentinels require someone to ground them. My missions were generally solo with rare moments of commanding a team if necessary. There was never a partner. But killing Captain America isn't an easy task."

"They wanted me to help you assassinate Steve." Sam shook his head. How the hell did anyone think he could do that, would _want_ to do that? But since when did Hydra care about choice?

"Yes. It was implied that if it went well--and because you would need a partner you trusted anyway--that we could ... be a team."

All the anger Sam's been holding for Barnes drains right out of him. He gets it, gets it so hard his chest aches. Partnership implies equality, not being alone, and he can't imagine how long it's been since Barnes had someone he could be on the same level with.

"You said it didn't occur to you at first."

"I was told to proceed as I saw fit. A sexual relationship wasn't necessary. Your friend Riley proved that much." Barnes looks like he expects to be yelled at for mentioning Riley. Sam almost wants to laugh but he thinks it might come out wrong. "I just ..."

The sharp noise of frustration that erupts from Barnes startles Sam enough to drop his mostly melted bag of ice. Barnes licks his lips, grabs the bag, and walks away. There's the rattling sound of disturbed ice then he's back, holding a new bag out for Sam.

"I don't know how to explain what it was like when the--when I was brainwashed. When they were in my head trying to change the way I think. There was no knowing when something would bring the old me back," Barnes says, the words stilted and edged in frustration and anger. "I'd seen pictures of you but memories aren't just photos. They're sensation."

He chuckled, this hollow, distant noise that sounded so defeated. His eyes were wet and his bottom lip was red from worrying it with his teeth. It was probably the most emotion Sam had ever seen him express.

"I was just going to try to be your friend, I _swear_ , but then I saw you and--Jesus, Sammy!" The name bursts off his tongue, lighting up Barnes' whole face for a second. "I'd have gone for you back then. If one or both of us wouldn't have ended up in jail or dead I'd have begged you for a kiss."

"Familiar things could fuck up your programming," Sam hazards to guess, easier to grasp than having someone look at him like he's the sun.

Barnes latching on to it though, head bobbing in a sharp nod. "Like when Steve called my name on the bridge. I didn't recognize him, the way the serum made him look, but his voice ... I dreamed about his voice sometimes. I dreamed about him calling that name."

Sam has no idea how to respond to that. Even if he was willing to act as Barnes' counselor, Sam would be severely out of his depths. A response doesn't seem expected though. Barnes has calmed, clearly curious that Sam is following his explanations instead of yelling.

"The man you killed at the bar," Sam starts after turning it over in his head for a moment. "He was there because they realized something wasn't their idea of right." 

"I wasn't getting results. I wasn't pushing you hard enough. I think at first they just assumed it was a problem with my skill set. They trained me to be an assassin, not a spy. I don't think it occurred to them I would sabotage the mission when I had so much to gain."

"Why did you?"

Barnes hesitates again, clearly gathering this thoughts as he absently runs the fingers of his right hand over their metal counterparts. "They used to tell me I was a doing the world good with my actions, that I was a hero. At first, I thought I was just recruiting you to do the same. And because you weren't broken like me, they wouldn't have to do things like put you in the chair to fix you.

"But I'm not broken. Fucked up, pissed off, but not broken and the longer I went without them 'fixing' me, the more I realized they were going to hurt you anyway. That night was the first time they inserted themselves in the situation instead of letting me handle it. I knew that wasn't going to end well."

Humming in understanding, Sam closes his eyes. "Okay, here's the thing: I'm tired, you've spilled all the details and unless that was all a lie--which I will shoot you for if it is--I'm cool with sharing air with you. Please tell me there are beds in this place."

A soft confused sound reaches Sam's ears. "I don't expect your forgiveness."

"Well, you're probably getting it anyway." Sam would shrug if it wouldn't disturb his ribs. "Find me a bed. Stab anything Hydra shaped that pops up wanting to chat."

The order is followed by a long beat of silence then, "You're okay with this?"

"No. No, I'm really fucking not, but I'm tired and I'll feel a lot safer with your scary ass than alone." He cracks one eye open to meet Barnes confused gaze. "And I'm not mad at you. I get it. I understand and we're good okay?"

Barnes doesn't look any less confused as he nods, but he does look warily hopeful.

***

Sam gets that bed. It's suspiciously huge and comes complete with a supersoldier bedwarmer once Sam repeats several times that he really is sure that's what he wants and not just because the drugs are kicking in. Barnes curls up small and as far as possible from Sam without leaving the bed. Sighing, Sam paws at him until he comes closer, angling himself so their faces are close but he isn't putting pressure on Sam's injuries.

Sometime later, Sam startles awake without a Barnes. There's a Steve creeping onto the bed though, smelling heavily of grass and trees and leather. Smiling, he kisses Sam's uninjured cheek and coaxes him back to sleep.

When he dreams, it's of flying high in the sky, a carpet of trees and the roar of an angry predator far below him.

***

"You know," Sam says the next day as Barnes prepares feed him lunch, "the metal is about the only thing on you that doesn't still smell a little bloody."

Barnes pauses, an eyebrow arched in mild curiosity as he waits for Sam to either make a point or prove this to be slightly loopy rambling. After a second, the other eyebrow joins the climb towards his hairline as realization dawns on his face. He straightens a little, eyeing the plate of food he'd brought to see if it was up for the task. 

Sam almost laughs at Barnes' seriousness as metal fingers pluck up a small piece of a meat and holds it to Sam's lips. If Sam's careful, if he's neat, he doesn't have to touch the metal at all. 

He isn't careful. He's not neat. He could blame the painkillers he's still too reliant on but he really just wants to taste the tang of strange metal on his tongue. If Barnes notices or cares that his fingers come back wet, he doesn't show it, just gives Sam more once he stops chewing.

Sam can hear Steve pass by the door, stop, then double back to watch the show. Sam suppresses a smile as the sharp scent of Steve's interest joins Barnes'. It's a heady sensation, both the smell and knowing he's getting at least a little payback for Steve's blatant post-coital displays. He'll probably pay for it later--Sam sneaks a glance at Steve between bites--he'll definitely pay for it later, but it's going to be worth it.

***

Barnes leaves the safe house about a week after rescuing Sam. He promises to be back, killer smile on his face as he kisses Sam's cheek like a gentleman. He promises gifts too, which Sam suspects means some dead Hydra agent's property.

"You ever feel like you're screwing the Boogie Man?" Sam asks as Steve joins him on the couch. He smells like Sam from sharing the bed, goodbye sex with Barnes, and sadness. Sam gently nudges him with his shoulder so Steve meets his gaze. "He'll be back. With trophies. You realize how fucked up it is we're just accepting that, right?"

"What else are we supposed to do?"

Sam doesn't have an answer for that. Tell Barnes to stop? Reprimand him like a naughty dog or child for being bloodthirsty? Leave and refuse to interact with him?

That last one isn't going to happen, especially where Steve is concerned. The rest? Sam can't even imagine those conversations, can't work out a way they wouldn't end horribly and without the slap insult.

The most they could do is tell Barnes they're uncomfortable with it and hope it makes an impact.

Except they aren't, not really. They're former soldiers who understand the need to put an enemy down for good because if it get back up, you and yours are dead. Hydra's proven that, God how they've proven it, and the ripple effect of their comeback is still being felt worldwide.

Besides, Barnes refuses to risk innocent lives as collateral damage and he doesn't kill for sport. His operations are neat, quick, and as contained as humanly possible. Any objects he brings back to prove a kill won't be about satisfaction. He's like a cat leaving gifts, the promise of retribution against anyone who harms the people he cares about. The promise to protect.

Sam leans into Steve, both of them careful about his healing ribs. He inhales the mingled scents on Steve's skin and clothes until Steve gently shakes him, smiling the way he always does when Sam zones, small and a little worried but mostly curious.

***

There isn't much for Sam to do but explore. He goes slow, unwilling to aggravate his various aches and pain. He touches everything--the walls, the doors, the pieces of furniture he finds--investigates with his senses to piece together a full picture. 

They're underground in some sort of massive bunker dressed up to look like a mansion. There's wood panels to hide the concrete beneath, art and decorations to accompany the expensive furniture and huge plush beds. The doors don't fit the decor, thick dark metal out of place beside the air of grandeur.

It's probably meant to make some rich asshole feel comfortable as the outside world burns but Sam finds the lack of windows disconcerting.

As he wanders, he puzzles through how Barnes had even acquired it and thought it safe enough to hole up in for so long. The intended owner is no doubt dead, probably some Hydra higher up or even a relic from Barnes' time under Soviet control. The details are sketchy, but between details Natasha gave them Barnes himself, they know the Russians found Barnes first and warily jumped at Zola's offer to 'help'. Hydra had no doubt infiltrated by that point or soon after but Barnes wasn't officially a Hydra asset until decades later. 

Whoever the person was, they probably hadn't shared the location of this place with anyone or Barnes wouldn't have risked it, nice food or not. Sam guesses that means they should offer up three cheers for paranoia and potential backstabbing.

"Pretty sure a professional chef would sell their soul for that kitchen," Sam says as he pokes around a bookshelf, projecting his voice so Steve can hear him from down the hall.

There's a huff of laughter and leisurely footsteps as Steve comes in to join him. "Couldn't find you. I was starting to think you'd gone outside." It's good natured but Sam can still catch the soft edge of worry.

He answers with a low hum and pulls out one of the books. "Not that loopy. Barnes would have my head if I ran the risk."

"More like take you over his knee, but, yeah, basically," Steve agrees, coming to stand behind him. He can feel Steve's eyes on him. "You can call him Bucky, you know."

"I'll do that when he either asks me to or things escalate." A sound of amused disbelief works its way out of Steve's mouth. "And no, having his fingers in my my mouth doesn't count."

"No, no, completely normal behavior between friends."

"Says the man who sucked his best friend's dick to say goodbye." He rolls his eyes at the way Steve _preens_ at that. "You're a filthy bastard and the world should know you set up people to overhear you having sex."

When Sam turns to look at him, Steve's gleefully smug expression says that no one will believe it. It's true, not many people want to believe bad about Captain America, happily warping Steve to fit whatever they believe. There's even a few people trying to blame Sam for getting Steve involved in the whole S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra mess. The logic behind that thinking has holes large enough to fly fleet of fighter pilots through but Sam's still learned to keep Steve away from the more racist news outlets.

"You know, for a guy complaining so much, you never actually tell us to stop," Steve points out, smugness shifting to curiosity. "So do I get to suck your dick one day too?"

Sam's laughing too hard to answer, groaning as it aggravates his ribs. He playfully pushes Steve for it, and Steve lets himself rock back with the force just so Sam can feel like he's accomplished something.

"Jesus! What happened to that flustered, hopeless mess Natasha and Barnes told me about?"

"Well, you _are_ awfully pretty but you're not a woman." Steve smiles, but there's a seriousness behind it. "You like guys, right? You learned how to act normal around one that hit you just right so you wouldn't, well, actually get hit?"

He watches Sam nod in acknowledgment, brow furrowing a little. "But seriously, Sam, I won't know if I'm crossing the line if you don't tell me where it's at."

Sam sighs. He doesn't doubt that if he said he didn't want sex, they wouldn't question or push. That they'd happily keep to cuddling and the occasional chaste kiss if that was what he wanted. 

It isn't. Not after staring down a future as Hydra's plaything. But there's still a problem.

"I've never had sex while my senses are all ..." He makes a frantic gesture, not really sure it conveys what he wants it to. "I'm not sure it qualifies enough under fight or flight to keep me from zoning and sex with normal senses can be overwhelming enough."

"Worried your brain will fry," Steve teases. 

Sam can tell he's thinking about it, can smell it on him and in the air, can taste it on his tongue when he sucks in a steadying breath. He suspects there'll be no getting the idea out of Steve's head now.

Steve recovers quickly, doing his best to look very serious about the conversation as he says, "I'm sure it's not a huge issue. We just have to take it into consideration. Be careful."

"Uh huh, 'careful'. That's exactly what you want to be to me."

"No, not all the time," Steve readily admits. His expression shifts, an idea forming. "Fight or flight, right? Rough sex might actually be the answer to that zoning problem. If it was even an issue to begin with."

Sam listens to all that with an indulgent smile. It was always fun to hand Steve a technical problem to solve and watch him go. "Glad to hear it. So what about the other issue, Doc?"

Steve's smile turns absolutely filthy. "Well, you're always telling me to slow down. It gets too much, we take a breather." He sobers after a second, wets his lips in a way that's not meant to be seductive but Sam's mind is still swimming in the gutter. "You know this isn't just about sex, right?"

"We'd be having a very different conversation if I didn't." He gives Steve's collar a light tug, gently pulling him closer to press a light kiss to Steve's mouth. "Don't worry, Rogers, I know what you're about."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He kisses Steve again, still closed-mouthed but slower, and he savors the way their lips meet, the soft heat and friction of it. "But Barnes gets dibs. He made me feel pretty first."

Steve groans, the sound low and frustrated. Sam smiles benignly at him, strokes a thumb over his cheek, and revels in sweet, sweet revenge.

***

After the first week and a half of Sam's recovery, he and Steve start to move from safe house to safe house. They're not as nice as the bunker but they're well stocked and they all have nice beds. They've both slept in a hell of a lot worse and they stay no longer than a week in any of them.

Sam stops wondering how Steve knows where to go after the first move. There's a metal box waiting on a table near the door. Sam has a good idea what's inside the moment he sees it but he lets Steve push the lid back to reveal the contents. 

A couple of guns, a wicked looking knife that Sam immediately lays claim to, a few mismatched thumb drives full of lifted intel, and a clear baggie that contains maybe four or five slightly bloody Hydra badges.

Barnes makes for a very interesting Secret Santa.

Both Sam and Steve agree that Sam isn't up for another potential fight and lying low is the best option, but it doesn't make it any less boring. Sam's gotten used to the action again, the constant anticipation of a fight that had dulled with civilian life.

Steve's solution is to prove he's an even bigger exhibitionist when his audience can do more than just hear. 

He seems to be very serious about Barnes having dibs, and Sam strongly suspects word has reached their erstwhile assassin already. Steve refuses to go further than a heavy makeout session and a few 'accidental' touches, citing Sam's cracked ribs as the reason for grinding things to a halt after driving Sam out of his mind.

He isn't nearly so restrained where his own body is concerned, conveniently forgetting to cover himself with a towel after showering, stroking his cock as Sam tries to read beside him, working fingers inside his ass while Sam's trying to nap. It only gets worse-- _better_ \--when the third metal box contains a still packaged vibrator along with the usual fare. 

Sam has gotten himself involved with evil, evil men.

***

A week passes after Sam determines he's completely healed and battle ready. They switch safe houses instead of plotting their next move against Hydra and setting out. There are no sex toys in the box this time but there is expensive chocolate and a crumpled button with the Hydra logo on it.

They go to sleep that night without Steve putting on a show, the air tense and charged as they wait.

***

Sam isn't sure what wakes him at first. It could be anything, really. Three days in and the current safe house still feels alien to him.

He realizes what it was when the bed dips and Steve lets out another pained whimper in his sleep. When Sam glances over, he finds Bucky kneeling beside Steve, leaning over him so his chest is pressed flush with Steve's back. Long hair hides Bucky's face as he presses soft kisses into Steve's neck and shoulders, quiet words spilling out with each gentle point of pressure.

"I'm here, Stevie. I'm back. It's okay. We're all safe and sound."

Steve groggily shifts against him, humming happily as Bucky laces their fingers together. "Hey, Bucky."

"Hey. Go back to sleep, huh?"

Steve smiles, manages to make it dirty even while half asleep and coming out of a nightmare. "Hell no, you've got dibs."

"Do I now?" Bucky turns his head just enough to meet Sam's gaze through the fall of his hair. There's a question there, whether Sam wants to wait until morning. Whether he wants to do it at all.

Bucky is still dressed for combat. He's clean but still smells like blood, gunpowder, and death. Sam doesn't hesitate to open his arms wide and invite him in.

Bucky's kisses are too hungry to be slow, too desperate to be gentle. Sam arches into him, knotting his fingers in soft hair. He focuses on the sharp rasp of Steve's breathing to keep himself from getting lost in the feel of Bucky's mouth devouring his own and hard body pressing him into the bed.

When Bucky pulls himself free, it's to remove Sam's few items of clothing with single-minded purpose. His touch turns hesitant once Sam's naked, reverent as his fingers meet skin, follows the path of muscles and bone like he's trying to commit Sam to memory.

"So pretty, Sammy." He finds the curve of Sam's erection, metal sliding over the skin. "So goddamn pretty."

Sam whines, shivering with both Bucky's words and touch. He reaches for Steve, moans as hands push his thighs open and warm breath skirts over his cock and balls. The air is thick with lust and their combined scents. Three heartbeats pound hard in Sam's ear.

Steve's face fills Sam's vision, so very awake and interested. "Need him to slow down?"

Sam shakes his head. Sensation sparks under his skin like firework, bright bursts making him squirm so hard Bucky has to hold him down. But he doesn't want slower. He wants more.

Steve tips Sam's head back to better watch his face, laughs softly when Sam shouts and tries to push against Bucky's mouth as he swallows down Sam's cock. Steve's gaze is searching, alert for signs of distress. His touch is a gentle counterpart to the delicious dig of Bucky's fingers holding him open and exposed.

Bucky pulls back with a filthy slurp, left thumb idly stroking over wet flesh, the right lightly pressed against his entrance. Electricity dances through Sam.

"You're crying," Bucky says, voice soft and eyes focused sharp on Sam. Steve runs a hand over his cheek and shows him the wet tips of his fingers. "I've hardly done anything. Do you think you can take me inside you? Are you too sensitive for that?"

Sam imagines it, the stretch and burn, the stabs of pleasure. He wants it, wants it so much he whines, hands reaching for Bucky only to be captured by Steve. Sam wants it but he thinks he might combust, burn right down to a cinder. 

"Can't ... I can't." He cuts himself off with a sob, angry at his body for keeping this from him. Steve rumbles a soothing noise and lays gentle kisses against Sam's wrists.

"It's okay. We just have to build up to that," Steve promises, voice dark and heavy. "Practice."

"Lots of practice. Let me get undressed, Sammy. I have an idea."

Sam whines when Bucky leaves him then shoots Steve a pointed look. Chuckling, Steve lets go so he can strip off his boxers and shirt. It takes Bucky longer, the items of clothes carelessly dropping around him until he's naked. 

Sam can see every scar clearly, pockmarks of bullet wounds, rough edges made by a blade, the jagged mass where flesh and metal meets. Bucky stills, unselfconscious and awaiting judgment.

"Come here, Bucky," Sam says, the lull leaving him a little calmer. He watches Bucky startle, surprised at the use of that particular name. "Show us this idea of yours."

Bucky lurches forward like he's been pulled, kisses Sam then Steve with that earlier desperate hunger. He pulls Sam into his lap, back to chest, his cock pressed tight against Sam's ass. 

Using his right hand under Sam's thigh, Bucky lifts him and uses his left hand to guide his cock. The crown nudges against Sam's balls, making him shiver and moan.

"Shh, shh," he mutters into Sam's neck, bites and sucks at the skin until it bruises. He lowers Sam back down and Sam closes his legs without needing to be told, trapping Bucky's cock between his thighs. "Fuck, that's perfect. You're perfect. Think you can suck Steve's dick if I move you a little? Get you on your knees?"

Sam and Steve moan in concert. Managing to scrape together enough brain cells to utter a broken yes, Sam is immediately tipped forward, gentle hands manhandling him into place. Steve's cock is right _there_ , so close and waiting for him, fluid pearling at the tip as Steve traces Sam's lips with unsteady fingers. Sam could drown in his scent, the aching need in it that makes his mouth water.

The salt of skin and the sharp tang of precome bursts on his tongue as he tastes. Nails bite at his flesh as he slips the crown into his mouth and works his way down. Sam grips Steve's thighs, the muscles trembling with the effort to hold still instead of pushing forward. He rewards Steve by sucking harder, humming as the sounds of kissing swallows Steve's moan.

Smooth metal digs into Sam's hip, holding him in place as Bucky thrusts, painting his thighs wet and sticky. Bucky wraps his other hand around Sam's cock, pumps it slow and tight, gently squeezing as Sam arches and shakes. 

His senses are spread wide, relaying every fiery touch, every nuance of scent, taste, and sound. Thought leaves him, sensation reducing him to a creature of instincts, the demand of more more more. His orgasm blindsides him, crashes through him like a wave, turns _more_ into _too much_ but he loves every ragged second of it.

He blinks back to himself to find Steve's slipped from his mouth and Bucky has gone still, breathing harsh and cock still hard and wet between Sam's thighs. 

"'M okay. Keep going," Sam insists, his words thick and slurred and rough. Flexing his thighs gets him jolted forward with a strangled growl so he does it again, slow and lazy, keeps doing it until Bucky grips his hips hard in both hands and ruts.

"Sam ..." Steve says, soft and needy, breath hissing when Sam opens his mouth without further prompting and sucks him down with a low moan.

He opens his throat and uses his hands to encourage Steve to fuck his mouth, his body loose and pliant as he lets them use him. Bucky spills first, silent except for the hitch of his breath, grip tightening enough to leave bruises but not crush. He lets go, guides Sam's hips to the bed, his right hand straying between Sam's thighs to touch the come dripping there.

Steve doesn't last long after that, filling Sam's mouth until Sam pulls back and strokes him through the rest of his orgasm. His release stripes Sam's chin and neck, hot against the skin. The smile Sam gives him is dreamy and tired, well pleased as the scents soak into his skin, making him feel marked and loved.

He grumbles when the bed shifts, Bucky hushing him before disappearing. Hazy, he hears water running then being wrung out of something. When Steve encourages him to roll over, he does, legs splayed open in a way that makes Steve call him a tease. Sam grins and watches Bucky return, the washcloth in his hand wiping away the stickiness but not the scent.

***

It doesn't take long to pack the next morning, though they do end up distracting each other several times before it's accomplished. They make plans to head to Dubai to investigate a suspected Hydra laboratory posing as a construction company. The three of them, together.

Sam's not sure if he'll ever see the safe house again, and that's fine despite the memory it carries with it and the danger lurking outside. Everything he needs is coming with him.

**Author's Note:**

> The rescue scene is absolutely inspired by [this wonderfully dark idea](http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/104930338090/person-a-being-held-hostage-in-a-fortress-and).


End file.
